


Let My Sad Kids Have Families, Blizzard: Redux

by sigrún (stumpy)



Series: Cat's Overwatch Canon [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dad:76 - Freeform, Drabble Collection, Gen, Gency, Gremlin Hana "D.Va" Song, Hana Is A Little Shit, Kinda but not really, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Post-Recall, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Snipers, Suicide mention, Talon Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Young Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Young Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, everybody are bros!!, they get along it's great!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stumpy/pseuds/sigr%C3%BAn
Summary: A collection of drabbles that fulfill all my personal headcanons and such. Sometimes shippy, sometimes angsty, sometimes a little silly. Originally all posted in a series but I'm dumb so I'm gonna set it up in one work. So yep, you've seen some these before!Newest Chapter: #2, #10, #11, #12





	1. Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snowsheba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowsheba/gifts), [NiteWrighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiteWrighter/gifts).



> Welcome to the beginning of our tale, boys.
> 
> This used to be located here: http://archiveofourown.org/series/715806 but I've now moved them all into one convenient work for your viewing pleasure.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-London, Gabe and Jack sit down and talk. Well, they try. Kind of. Gabe is mostly smug that sending Jesse in was the right call and Jack is inclined to kick Gabe's ass for being a smug bastard. Still, at least he's making Jack feel better about the whole pissing off the UN thing.

“You’re a jackass, I hope you know,” Jack grumbled, frowning at the paperwork in front of him in every effort _not_ to look at Gabe. He knew he’d see nothing but a self-satisfied, smug grin, and he really didn’t feel like dealing with it.

Gabe was crowing, preening. Being a jackass. The usual, when he was right. “But I’m right, Jackie, and that’s all that matters. Call me whatever you want, but at least admit I’m right.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Jack hissed, forcing himself to look up at the smug bastard. “You were right to send McCree into London. Though I really don’t know why you sent the fucking cowboy for a stealth operation, considering the spurs-”

Gabe shrugged, the smartass. “He didn’t wear spurs.”

Jack shot him a scathing look. “That’s not the point. If he was caught, we’d be in even more diplomatic trouble than we are already. We sent a strike team into Kings’ Row, and if Blackwatch got caught up in the whole thing too, we’d be so far up shit creek a paddle wouldn’t help.”

“ _But_ we didn’t get caught up,” Gabe pointed out, dropping heavily into one of the stiff chairs in front of Jack’s desk. He kicked his boots up, expression daring Jack to make him move. “Hostages are safe, the cowboy’s home, and we pissed off the UN. Sounds like a good day.”

“Yeah, a good day,” Jack echoed, with the tone of someone who was decidedly _not_ having a great day.

Gabe set aside his bravado, and kicked his feet down so he could sit up and watch Jack more closely. “You, me, and Ana all signed off on the mission, so they’ll get off your ass and spread this shit equally. If we go down for doing the right thing, we’re going down together. Or maybe we won’t go down, and Ana and I can get our own statues.”

Jack groaned, covering his face. “You’re never gonna let this go are you.”

“When I get a statue, I’ll let it go.”

The stared at each other for a second before both breaking into laughter. Jack snorted loudly. “I can see it now. Gabe Reyes with a cowboy tucked under one arm and a cyborg ninja under the other, proudly telling a crowd of bystanders to go suck a dick.”

“Jackie, I’m touched that you understand me so well,” Gabe snickered. “Ana’s statue would be better. Knocking our heads together with a smile on her face.”

Jack snorted again. “I remember when she did that. I think, anyway. We were three-quarters of the way through a bottle of tequila at that point, right?”

“Mhm,” Gabe affirmed. “Right after that mission in-”

“St. Petersburg,” they said at the same time.

Jack laughed, and Gabe continued, a little less humorous. “Never been so sure we were both gonna die, Jack. I wish you would’ve just run.”

“Ah, fuck you, man,” Jack grumbled. “What’d you say earlier? ‘We’re going down together’? You know that’s always been true.”

Gabe was somewhat sobered, and shook his head. “You’re really stupid, Morrison.”

“Learned from the best,” Jack shot back, with a cheeky grin that Gabe suddenly felt inclined to punch.

Gabe rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky we’re friends or I’d kick your ass for being so nice.”

“Not if I kicked your ass first.”

“Like a glorified boy scout could kick my ass,” Gabe mumbled, but he was smiling, relaxed back in his chair.

Jack kept up the grin, easily countering, “I’d let you win to keep your pride.”

“Hey, I have enough pride, thank you. You need your ego knocked down a peg.”

“Why do you think I have a big ego?”

“I dunno,” Gabe said cheekily, standing from his chair to walk out of the office. “Maybe it’s the statue.”

_“Gabe!"_


	2. I'm Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe comforts Jesse after he loses his arm.
> 
> 1/3 of the Papa!Gabe request I got from a lovely guest!

“What’s going on Jesse?”

McCree was never quiet. Not in the way he was now. The boy was a stealth agent with no rival; a tactical genius; a savant with any weapon he was handed. But he dressed himself up, boisterous and loud and ridiculous and it was the perfect camouflage because who expects a covert ops agent to show up in spurs? No one, that’s who.

Jesse, someone he’d be proud to have for a son, was never quiet out of a mission. Maybe it kept the demons away. Maybe it just kept him busy. Gabe’d never asked, because he knew that everyone had that certain thing that kept them going. He knew the feeling.

Jesse stared at him for a long moment, guitar loose in his fingertips, right arm plucking at the strings while what was left of his left hung uselessly. “I’m broken, Gabe.”

“You just lost some weight,” Gabe said, with a wave of his hand. “Who the hell needs an arm?”

Jesse gave him yet another blank look. “A covert ops agent, for starters.”

“That’s why we’re getting you a prosthetic.”

Jesse rubbed his face, and adjusted his hat before he spoke. “But it’s not my arm. It’s never gonna be my arm. It’ll never be as fast or as good.”

“Go ask Shimada how his prosthetics are doing compared to biological limbs,” Gabe pointed out. “Seriously, I’ll wait.”

“He hates himself,” Jesse countered.

Gabe rolled his eyes, but conceded. “Point.”

Jesse sighed, shrugged. “I guess I’ll see how I feel with the prosthetic. But I’m never gonna be fully Jesse again.”

“Whatever you say, kid.”


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Angela didn't want to go back to work, didn't feel interested in the snow and cold that she'd grown up in, just wanted to bask in the setting sun with her best friend and his family and never worry again."

New Mexico was beautiful, in a barren, hot, dry way that Switzerland could never offer. There were no perpetual snowdrifts save in the mountains, and Angela almost felt glad about that. She was most glad about where in New Mexico she was. She sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of Jesse McCree’s old home, sipping a beer as she watched the sun set. Jesse was next to her, with whiskey instead of beer, humming some old song cheerily.

It was home as much as it wasn't, so unfamiliar and alien but so calm and comforting in a way that she'd never gotten a chance to feel. Jesse had even left his gun in his room, so relaxed that the thing had been easy to forget. Angela felt safe regardless, like a section of hot, dusty Heaven had dropped down in the middle of New Mexico, just for the McCrees; their own slice of paradise, tucked away from anyone that might interrupt.

“I'm glad I came,” she said finally, smiling peacefully and sipping the beer. “This is the most relaxed and at home I've felt in years.”

Her best friend, sweet and ridiculous and wonderful, tipped his hat. “I'm glad you came, too, Angie.”

The two weeks of vacation she'd earned from her work didn't seem like enough, suddenly. Angela didn't want to go back to work, didn't feel interested in the snow and cold that she'd grown up in, just wanted to bask in the setting sun with her best friend and his family and never worry again. She caught herself humming along with him, and Jesse gave her an award-winning grin. “Aw, you're learnin’ Johnny Cash! Thought you said it was old an’ that I'm a walkin’ stereotype.”

“You are,” she retorted, not a bit of venom in her voice. “It's a good song, though, I'll admit.”

“I'll make a cowgirl of you yet, Angie,” Jesse chuckled.

Eyes narrowed, she reached out and stole his hat, perching it on her own head, and mock-seriously, poorly imitating his accent: “I reckon I'm a better cowboy than you now.”

Their eyes met and then, after a second, they were laughing, little childish giggles that bubbled up helplessly. “You are a goddamned riot, Ziegler.”

“Reckon I am,” she shot back with another impressively terrible imitation of his accent. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Matter o’ fact, I do, Ms. High ‘n Mighty.”

He stuck his tongue out and she swatted at him, and it would've progressed into a minor scuffle had Mamá McCree not stepped out, smiling. “Alright, _cariños_ , dinner is on the table. Get washed up.”

Angela loved Mamá fiercely. She was soft and kind and loving, so happy, but so unwaveringly protective and funny and snarky. She reminded Angela vaguely of her own mother, in all the best ways. That was another thing she was loathe to leave, this mother figure who'd adopted Angela as one of her own. “Thank you, Mamá.”

The older woman ruffled Jesse’s hair affectionately and bustled back inside, calling out in lilting Spanish to Jesse’s younger siblings. The pair of them hefted upwards to their feet, and Angela gave Jesse an easy smile. “I love your family so much.”

“We love you too, Angie,” Jesse replied, an earnest open book, draping an arm around her shoulder. “You're a McCree now.”

If she was smiling before, she'd started to grin at that affirmation. “That means the world to me.”

“ _Yo sé, hermana. Yo sé._ ”


	4. Off to the Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favorite medic answers the Recall after some brief consultation.

It was late when Angela got the message, beeping its way into the first hour of stolen sleep. The communicator in her nightstand lit up like a Christmas tree, projecting a hologram as soon as she freed the thing. And there it was: the Overwatch logo bearing a recall notice for Watchpoint: Gibraltar, and a simple yes or no choice. Groaning, she hit the snooze button and rolled back over, vowing to deal with the possibility of becoming an international criminal in the morning.

Jesse McCree woke her up at a more respectable time, six o’clock, and she sighed, answering as soon as she'd rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Jesse.”

_ “What are you gonna do about this whole thing, Ange?” _

“I was going to ask you the same,” Angela groaned, flopping onto her back, bleary eyes focused on the face on the screen. “I know I should say yes, but I don't even know if enough people plan to come back.”

_ “I was thinking about stayin’ out of the whole thing but I don't wanna leave you high and dry if you go.” _ He took a drag of his cigarette. Angela frowned.  _ “Tell me you're gonna say yes and I'll be in Gibraltar as soon as I can.” _

Her eyes wandered to the framed photos cluttering her room, lingering the longest on one with most of the original members, Fareeha, Jesse, and herself. Her family. Mostly dead, but she knew Torbjörn and Reinhardt would rejoin. Fareeha would probably come when she heard the news: she'd been dreaming of Overwatch for far too long. Winston would be waiting for them. What about Genji? She groaned at the phone again, finally. “ _ Verdammt _ , Jesse. I need to talk to Genji and see what he's going to do first. I'll get back to you soon.”

_ “Tell the lil shit I said hi.” _

* * *

Angela called on her lunch break, half a sandwich in one hand as she used the communicator. Genji was always, always quick to pick up for her.  _ “Angela! This is a nice surprise.” _

“ _ Liebling, _ ” she greeted with a smile. “Did you see the notice?”

His face soured, like he'd sucked on a particularly tart lemon.  _ “Unfortunately, yes. I don't know what to do.” _

“I think we should go back, but I want to know what you’re going to do.”

He was quiet, the hologram flickering slightly.  _ “I'm going to talk to Master Zenyatta and see what advice he has. Regardless, I think you should do what you think is right.” _

“Just let me know what he suggests, Genji,” she sighed. “I'm off work at six my time. You can call after that.”

* * *

Genji called her back as she was walking out of work, with very little to say.  _ “We agreed that I should go. I need to go to Hanamura, but… once I return, Master Zenyatta and I will go to Gibraltar.” _

“That’s good, Genji,” she replied, smiling just a bit. “I will see you soon.”

* * *

Angela had only been to Gibraltar a couple of times, usually confined to Geneva except for missions. She'd always liked the Geneva headquarters better, but she was glad for the difference between the Watchpoint and the old headquarters. There were more colors at Gibraltar, and it was more broken in and homey. Winston had met her at the fence, and she wasn't upset about the bear hug (gorilla hug, really) that the scientist greeted her with. She was the second there, after Lena, with Reinhardt scheduled to be there a few hours later. Torbjörn would be there the next day, and Jesse had said he'd be there within a week.

Lena, too, had greeted her with a rib-crushing hug, chronal accelerator digging unpleasantly into her chest, but not enough to pull away. Lena was eleven years her junior, but they'd been close all the same. Angela had always loved her quick wit and positivity, even when she'd been faced with chronal dissociation. Angela finally pulled back, giving her a brief visual once over. “You look well, Lena.”

And she did: relaxed in short overalls and a shirt, and ratty gym shoes. If not for the accelerator on her chest, Lena was barely recognizable as the fierce time-jumping agent she remembered. The only thing militarized was her posture, but Angela was quite sure her own stance was also like that of an at ease soldier.

Lena grinned. “Even better ‘cause you're here, love. We’ve got a whole Watchpoint to sort out before we get more than a few people here.”

Angela groaned as Winston and Lena led her inside.


	5. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He took the stall next to her, and set about loading his rifle. Hana picked up her gun again. “Hana Song, call sign D.Va. I'm assuming you're Soldier: 76.”
> 
> “The one and only.”

Meeting Hana Song was certainly something, Jack supposed. She was a kid, really; nineteen, barely older than he'd been when he joined up with the military. Hana, bubblegum pink, iconic mech in tow, had given little warning of her arrival, fearing her superiors would learn about her plans. But there she was, in the flesh, at the Watchpoint. Winston had greeted her, and through the security cameras, Jack could see her bubblegum had popped in her shock. Winston tended to have that effect on people, but Hana snapped out of it and gave a sharp salute after a moment.

Jack liked her already, and liked her more by the next day when he found her already practicing shooting, her peashooter of a pistol sending pulse rounds squarely into various targets.

“Good shot,” he greeted, watching her projectile speed being calculated on his visor. Slower than he liked, but the girl was good.

The gum popped again, and she turned to him with a frustrated noise. “Well, _that's_ certainly a look. Someone ought to call Vogue.”

“Pot, kettle,” Jack grumbled. “Don't mind me.”

He took the stall next to her, and set about loading his rifle. Hana picked up her gun again. “Hana Song, call sign D.Va. I'm assuming you're Soldier: 76.”

“The one and only.”

She hummed. “I’ve seen the news stories. That's an Overwatch standard issue pulse rifle fitted with rockets from Helix Security.”

“Better than your little peashooter.”

Hana cracked her gum, and he hefted his gun. She leaned to look at him, and grinned. “I bet I can take out more targets than you.”

“You sure?” Jack tapped the visor, making Hana grimace.

“Hm. No super-visor stuff. Unless you think you need hacks to beat me.”

He nodded. “Alright, kid, you got a deal.”

“I'm nineteen, dude.” Hana hefted the gun. “If I win, you have to be on one of my streams.”

“ _When_ I win, you owe me one favor, redeemable whenever I want.”

“You're on.”

Nineteen to eighteen. Jack hadn't been beaten in the medium distance range since McCree had joined the crew way back in the day. The kid was sharp as a whip, and he made sure to tell her that. “You're… incredibly good.”

Hana straightened up, preening. “GG, old man.”

“Kid.”

“ _Nineteen_.”

She left him, then, but not in a huff. Hana slowly packed up her things and, before heading out the door, pointed out, “I'm streaming tonight starting at ten. What's the phrase? Be there or be square?”

“I'll be there,” he grumbled.

Hana giggled, punching a fist in the air, and was gone. Jack groaned, taking his anguish out on some bots. He really regretted his bet.

* * *

Ten o’clock saw Jack awkwardly turning up to an old common room Hana had converted to her streaming space. She was talking animatedly, glancing between three screens and then, finally, at the door. “Oh, hey! Our special guest is here. Come over.” She barely waited for Jack to drop in the chair next to her before she was talking again. “This is Soldier: 76, don't ask him to take off the mask, he's like Overwatch’s Batman. Anyway, I wanted to show him Super Smash Brothers, maybe StarCraft if we don't run him off. How's that sound, 76?”

“No idea what any of that is.”

“농담하는거야?” She grumbled in Korean, and Jack had no clue what she'd said. “I asked if you were kidding, which, dumb question. You'll find out what those are soon enough.”

* * *

 

Jack was, as Hana had put it, a StarCraft prodigy. Military real time strategy was his calling, unsurprisingly, and Hana was very excited. “How are you doing this? You're so good.”

“Command experience,” he replied, feeling pride well up in his chest lightly. “Thanks.”

He ended up staying for three hours, and only regretted that the morning after. Easy, light banter and something to keep his hands busy was a blessing, one he hadn't had in a long time. It wasn't important or productive, but it was enough.

 _Yeah_ , he thought the next morning as he sat in the mess hall, watching Angela and McCree banter lightly as Reinhardt nursed a mug of coffee. _It's enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "농담하는거야?" translates to "Are you kidding?"
> 
> I didn't wanna use the symbols but the actual word is like 15 letters oh well lol.


	6. Sheep's Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "From the moment Hana met him, she could tell the cowboy, McCree, was the same. Hide behind the charm and play dumb and look a little ridiculous, and no one suspects a viper underneath it all."
> 
> Alternatively: neither McCree or Hana are as dumb as they seem, but they'll let you think what you want.

Hana knew exactly how to hide her brilliance behind a farce.

A few ditsy moments, an obsession with pink, a love of Doritos and Mountain Dew and bubble gum, and an infatuation with video games worked in her favor. People would underestimate her, even when she live-streamed battles with the kaiju-like monster that tormented South Korea. Hana wasn’t quite sure which part of her D.Va persona caused that more than any other, but she had learned not to question it. It gave her an edge, and everyone knew Hana played to win.

From the moment Hana met him, she could tell the cowboy, McCree, was the same. Hide behind the charm and play dumb and look a little ridiculous, and no one suspects a viper underneath it all. She watched him a lot, more than she did most people, and apparently he did too. He confronted her one day, all smiles and charm. “Howdy there, Hana.”

“ _Kauboi_ ,” she greeted, keeping a careful eye on his posture. It was confident yet relaxed. Hana cracked her gum. “Can I help you with something?”

“I wanted to ask you somethin’.”

She huffed a sigh, tossing her hair and blowing another bubble. Then she shifted her posture: open and receptive, arms uncrossed, slightly leaning on the leg closest to him. Breathe in, breathe out, eye contact. GG, EZ. “Go for it.”

“Why do you let people underestimate you?” The cowboy still wasn’t aggressive with his body language, so she stayed still. He continued. “Winston ‘bout looked at you like you have three eyes when you spoke up back there.”

There had been a briefing on a mission, and Hana had been unable to sit quietly while their current commander prattled on about something that wouldn’t work too well, anyway. She’d interjected. _“What about two teams, one flanking and one pushing in head on? I used to lead my squad like that. Put Rein and some damage dealers up_ _front with Dr. Ziegler, and send me and a couple of mobile people and maybe Lúcio in behind.”_

_The room had gone silent. Winston had finally broken it. “That’s a brilliant idea, Hana. I never knew you had such an eye for strategy.”_

“Have you underestimated me too, cowboy?” Hana gave a brilliant grin, all teeth. “C’mon, we both know they do the same to you.”

McCree was eyeing her down, this time his posture becoming slightly more defensive. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Jesse McCree, Commander Reyes’ unofficial second in command at Blackwatch,” she stated, matter-of-fact, punctuating it with another bubble popping. “I did my research, dude. You’re one of the most brilliant strategic minds of this century, and don’t play it off like you aren’t. I know you are. I think that the whole dumb cowboy persona is a good way to get people to underestimate you, so they aren’t looking for you when you go for the kill.”

“And the whole video game gremlin persona is the same thing?”

She grinned again, all teeth, arms folded as she stood stock still. “Absolutely.”

“Well ain’t you a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” McCree mused. “Guess you could say the same thing ‘bout me, though.”

She laughed, quietly. “I could. But I’d rather we both stay in sheep’s clothing.”

Then, still smiling slightly, posture tall and strong, Hana stuck out a hand to shake. McCree, with an incredulous look and a bemused smile, shook it. “Thank ya kindly, bunny.”

“ _Gomawo, kaubo_ i.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kauboi translates to cowboy, and gomawo should mean "thanks".


	7. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hana figures out who 76 is. He's not exactly happy, but Hana doesn't exactly care. She likes to know who her coworkers are.
> 
> or
> 
> “Athena tells me you’ve been digging through old personnel files,” he said, no pleasantries. His stance was closed off, defensive. “What are you looking for?”  
> Hana gave him an incredulous look, master of her trade. “Just looking, 76! Can’t I be curious?”  
> “No,” 76 replied cooly. “Don’t give me that shit, Hana. What are you looking at?”

Hana sat down at the conference table at midnight, a bundle of file folders in front of her along with a data pad. The door was locked, and the room was marked as unavailable. She spread out the files, trailing her fingers across the names on the top. Jack Morrison. Soldier: 76. She wouldn’t admit it without proof (hell, even with proof, Hana might not), but she had a hunch. A tall, mysterious hunch wrapped up in red, white, and blue.

Too similar were the body language and the build, she’d decided, looking at old holoclips of the blonde-haired man who’d once run Overwatch. The pulse rifle (Overwatch tech!) had added to her suspicions. Hell, the guy wasn’t exactly subtle. Hana took a breath, settling her thoughts, trying to convince herself that he was only Soldier: 76 until he was proven otherwise. Her thoughts wouldn’t settle, and she sighed deeply, setting the profiles side-by-side, looking at the non-redacted bits of each.

An hour of digging had only made her thoughts run more wild. It made her want to go confront 76, Morrison, whoever he was. Hana tried to settle herself to no avail, and groaned as she leaned back in the chair, rubbing her eyes. She reached out for her energy drink and took a sip. Just a little longer, she told herself. She needed to know who she was working with. So Hana dug back in, only to be interrupted a few minutes later.

“Agent Song,” Athena interrupted, cool and soothing. “You have a visitor.”

Hana knew. Immediately, Hana knew. Why was he up? Damn him. She closed the folders and set them in a pile, data pad on top. “Okay. Send him in.”

The door opened, a hiss and a click, and soft footsteps approached. Hana looked at the door, at the man in the visor, and sighed. “ _Annyeong_ , old man.”

“Athena tells me you’ve been digging through old personnel files,” he said, no pleasantries. His stance was closed off, defensive. “What are you looking for?”

Hana gave him an incredulous look, master of her trade. “Just looking, 76! Can’t I be curious?”

“No,” 76 replied cooly. “Don’t give me that shit, Hana. What are you looking at?”

She sighed through her nose, and rubbed her face. “I know who you are. Were. Too many coincidences, y’know?”

If his voice was cool before, it was decidedly arctic now, as he eyed her down (so she figured, the visor disarmed her a bit, taking away her ability to tell what his motivations were). “Oh? And how do you know that?”

“Overwatch’s pulse rifle,” Hana ticked off on her fingers. “Your height. Body type. Body language. Speech patterns. The way you try to lead.”

The man kept staring at her. “And who do you think I am?”

“Jack Morrison,” she answered, immediately.

76 was steady, his voice still chilly. “He’s dead.”

Hana narrowed her eyes, steady as well. “Allegedly. There was no body.”

“So the logical assumption is that it’s me?”

“Yep.”

They glared each other down for a moment, before the soldier broke their silence. “Who else knows about this theory of yours?”

“No one,” Hana immediately replied. “And it’ll stay that way. I just like to know who I’m working with.”

He was quiet, still, for a moment. Then: “Okay.”

And Jack Morrison took off the visor, leaving Hana a bit self-satisfied. “I knew it. I don’t know why you won’t tell anyone, but I won’t make that decision for you, okay, old man?”

Jack nodded, a small smile playing on his mouth. “Thanks, Hana.”

“No problem, dad,” she replied, making him grimace before he put his mask back on. She laughed as he stepped back out the door.


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela offers an olive branch to Hanzo in the form of chai tea and a serious-but-not conversation.

Genji had warned him that Dr. Ziegler would be cold to him; she would be angry, and rightly so, both brothers agreed. So, sitting in the damp night, brooding, too lost in thought to hear the quiet patter of footsteps, he didn't expect a body to drop next to him. Not Dr. Ziegler, especially. Maybe Hana, maybe McCree. Not her. But there she was, paler than the moonlight, hair frizzy, eyes tired. She pushed a mug into his hands without asking permission. It was hot, spicy: chai tea. She sipped her own. It burned his tongue.

“You remind me of your brother, when I first met him.”

He nearly choked, not expecting her voice to be gentle and delicate, mostly because she scared the everloving fuck out of him. “I'm sorry?”

“The whole brooding thing,” she continued, quicker and marginally harsher. “Is that some sort of tradition? You don't seek proper help for your issues and instead brood in the rain?”

Hanzo opened his mouth, closed it. Then nodded, once, a bit angry to be caught and called out.

Then the doctor was soft again. “At least you don't derail every conversation with gory details of what you want to do to your family.”

Gallows humor, he remembered. McCree had said they'd all had a knack for it. “I can do that if you miss it.”

She snorted, sipping the tea. “He hated when I'd corner him like this. Had to threaten to tell Reyes and it calmed him down some. I was just afraid he might throw himself off the roof.”

“You have similar concerns about me?” He was oddly touched, and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She looked tired.

“Yes.”

They were silent, and Dr. Ziegler had to break it. “I hope you know that you're my family now, Hanzo, for better or worse. It doesn't matter what happened anymore, like Genji says. It's done. So I'm here, as someone to lean on if you need it, if you need to talk to someone who's not a cowboy, nineteen, or mentally nineteen.”

Hanzo was quiet. Angela drummed her nails on the mug, and he finally looked down to see what her mug said. He read aloud, “‘For sake’?”

She pointed at the picture. “Hanzo. For fox sake.”

“Oh god.”

She gestured at his own. “Genji insisted that I bring you that mug.”

World’s okayest brother. That earned a laugh, a short bout of snorts and laughs that brought the medic to giggles too. “You should keep it. I'll get him another one so you two can match.”

Hanzo snorted one final time. “Maybe I will, Dr. Ziegler.”

“Angela will suffice,” she replied, not unkindly. “Family, remember.”

He smiled at her and nodded.

Satisfied, she stood, but paused before she left. “ _Du bist geliebt, Bruder._ Be safe, and feel free to come see me if you need.”

Angela had a hand on his shoulder for a second, then he was gone, and he could hear his brother faintly. “Angela! What happened? Where's my mug?”

There was a high giggle, and murmurs, and they were gone. Hanzo was alone. He downed the rest of the tea and looked at the mug one more time, and made a mental note to perhaps find one for Angela, maybe “world’s okayest doctor”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angela's phrase in German means "You are loved, brother."


	9. La Toile de L'araignée (The Spider's Web)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since Ana Amari's "death", no one except Tracer has challenged Widowmaker on the rooftops. She has never had to worry about other snipers, until now. Needless to say, Widowmaker is a bit surprised when an archer sends her running.

Widowmaker owned the rooftops.

Since Amari, no one had ever dared to challenge her in her own domain. Hell, no one could. Amari had been a message well-sent: fight Widowmaker, and end up dead. So she never bothered with someone covering her, only a few scattered venom mines around her, ready to kill whoever might be stupid enough to try and challenge the spider in her own web.

 _“Widowmaker, are you in position?”_ Reaper growled through the comm.

She snorted, annoyed, and twirled the end of her ponytail as she answered. “Of course. Western rooftop, as briefed.”

Reaper hummed once, affirmation. _“Local law enforcement en route. Should be about ten minutes before they arrive. If this works out, Sombra should have everything. If not, we’ll have to distract them.”_

“ _Oui_. I was listening in the meeting.”

Her trigger finger itched, but the Widowmaker was still, toying with a small scuff on the body of her rifle. It would need a touch-up soon, she decided as paint flecked off where she touched it. She set down a few spare magazines, and then lowered herself to lay belly-down on the flat roof. Adjustments were made, and she was in position with a few minutes left.

Then, to the east:

The sound of vehicles. Too few for law enforcement, and too soon. Widowmaker strained to listen. “Reaper. There are three unmarked SUVs coming in fast from the east. Too far and too much interference to use my visor.”

 _“Overwatch,”_ he growled, shotguns firing in the background. _“Hold position, bringing as many men as we can spare to get ready for a fight.”_

 _“Extraction at five percent.”_ Sombra chimed in. _“I need ten or fifteen minutes. Gabe, I need you here.”_

“Of course,” Widowmaker mumbled under her breath, staring down her sights. This wasn't going to be easy or fun.

-

This time, the little English twit wasn’t with Overwatch. The loud orange leggings were hard to miss. It was good, she decided, that there was no one stupid enough to try and shoot her in the face. Widowmaker smiled as she leaned forward, visor clicking down with a hiss. Her finger closed on the trigger, the cowboy’s head dangerously close to a gap, his shadow showing how deliciously _close_ he was to catching a bullet.

“Just a bit more, _chéri_. Let me see your pretty face.”

And then a fucking arrow buried itself in the rooftop an inch to her right, and Widowmaker was moving. Back pressed to cover, she took a breath, and blindly fired across to the only other vantage point: the rooftop across from hers. Another arrow hit the roof, a different head. The first was rounded, the second was sharp and meant to kill. A fucking arrow. Two arrows. There was an _archer_ trying to shoot her in the head. She almost laughed, and clicked on her infrared vision, spying a crouched figure. Silent like the wind, she propped the barrel of her rifle on the cover, and leaned into the scope. A bow appeared, and she sent three shots ringing through the air, cracking like thunder.

The visor whirred as it snapped out of infrared. Widowmaker cursed. “ _Merde!_ Stupid thing.”

Bloodlust sang in her veins, an overwhelming roar. Snarling, she rolled out of cover and hurled a venom mine. An arrow shattered it and clanged off of the armored shoulder of her suit. Back behind cover she went, finally touching her comm. “I’m pinned down! They have a sniper. An archer, _mon dieu_.”

“ _Fifty percent,_ ” Sombra replied. “ _Gabe’s a little busy, Amé._ ”

Shotguns sounded from below. Indeed, he was. “I’m going to kill this fool myself, then.”

“ _Amé! Wait, you said an archer?_ ”

She was already running, swan-diving from the roof and slinging herself back into the air with her grappling hook. Widowmaker soared for a moment, and let loose a spray of bullets as she arced to the archer’s vantage point. A few arrows flew past her, none hitting. There were shouts from below, all some form of a name.

“Hanzo!”

When she landed, there was no one.

“ _Quoi?_ ”

Her surprise grew when someone held something hard against her neck (a bow, she decided) and _threw_ her backwards until she almost fell off the building. With a practiced roll, Widowmaker was immediately back on her feet, rifle held tightly. Her hair had fallen down, midnight blue and limp, and there were small scrapes where the roof had broken through her suit, bright red blood seeping out onto her pale purple skin. Her face broke into a scowl. Oh, she was going to _enjoy_ this kill. She was going to savor it. She wanted blood on her hands, in the air, on the ground. She stood tall and met the archer’s gaze. The man was slightly smaller than her, but the rapidly-developing bruise on her neck spoke of his strength. She opened fire again. “I will remind you why no sniper dares to challenge me, _imbécile_.”

The man was skilled, she'd give him that. He dodged every shot, every venom mine. When she engaged him physically, the man blocked her blows, knocked away her rifle, fighting like someone with severe training. Widowmaker didn’t give in, striking and parrying just as easily. The man smashed her grapple wrist cuff, leaving her with no escape. She threw a high kick at his side, and he easily knocked it away and responded with his own hard kick, driving the wind out of her with those metal boots. Stars flew before her eyes, and she clumsily scrabbled away, snagging her rifle as she ducked behind cover, only to find herself pinned between a twenty foot drop and an Overwatch agent.

“Sombra,” she hissed into the comm, growing desperate. “Reaper. I need evac. _Now!_ ”

An arrow hit remarkably close to her leg, and she blindly threw her final mine. This was it. They were going to take her, torture her, do God knows what. She swallowed, icy fear creeping in under the usual numbness. She looked, frantically, for a way out, and closed her eyes when there were none. Sirens picked up in the distance, closing fast.

Then: the reddish light she saw through her eyelids faded, and something settled around her, cold and heavy, but definitely not solid. Widowmaker’s eyes opened, only to see black smoke rushing past her with the scent of death; sweet and sharp, and rotted. “Gabriel.”

He materialized, black cloak and white mask, twin shotguns already in his hands, and Widowmaker let her head thump back against cover. “Gabriel,” she repeated. He had come back for her. Why had he come for her?

Reaper growled, “No one left behind, _araña_. Evac’s coming. Just gotta last a couple of minutes, and Sombra will be here.”

He was off, shotguns forcing the archer back and away, though from the thudding sounds of arrows, Widowmaker could tell it wasn’t doing as much as Reaper had hoped. She got up, still out of breath, aching, and took aim with her rifle. Then: a shout, and she nearly gagged on the sudden scent of ozone. Reaper turned and ran towards her, grabbing her as he jumped from the roof. Widowmaker shouted in surprise (definitely not a shriek, she decided), and groaned when they hit the ground. Reaper had taken the brunt of the fall. She rolled off him so he could breathe, just in time to see two dragons pass overhead, blue and ethereal against the midnight sky. Just after it was the Scorpion, sleek and black, lighting up the rooftops with cover fire as Sombra, a pink and purple angel from above, dropped the ladder for them.

Reaper and Widowmaker, supporting each other, grabbed onto it and each other, and the thing automatically began pulling them up as the ship moved, too, up and away.

“Mission report, Sombra,” Widowmaker ordered, still panting.

Sombra laughed once, cheery. _“Mission successful. Good to hear your voice.”_

“Hmph.”

Then they were at the top, cloaked by the ship, and Sombra brought them safely inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation time!
> 
> Oui = yes  
> Chéri = sweetheart/dear/darling (a pet name)  
> Merde = shit/fuck  
> Mon dieu = my god  
> Quoi? = What?  
> Imbécile = idiot  
> Araña = spider
> 
>  
> 
> Headcanons: Gabe and Sombra call her araña a lot and it's never really pissed her off, but calling her Amé does (hence why Sombra insists on doing it). Widowmaker is strong (she was a ballerina, she had to be), but she's not been trained in martial arts like Hanzo, so she doesn't hold up in a physical fight. Widowmaker's still proud of taking down Ana Amari (she gets really, really mad when she finds out that Ana's alive). Were Widowmaker not evil, she'd be best sniper bros with Hanzo because they're not above shit-talking teammates over tea.
> 
> Fun Fact: this chapter is 1337 words.


	10. Laundry Cryptid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gibraltar has a laundry thief.

It was too goddamned early for this.

Satya had spilled tea all over Fareeha's old Overwatch hoodie which was no big deal, really, she'd assured the architect. Before they'd gone to bed, Fareeha had thrown it into the wash. And now, at five in the morning, before a six hour plane ride for a mission, the hoodie was gone.

"Fuck," she mumbled, frowning. "I liked that hoodie."

With a shrug, she headed back for her quarters, in search of a new hoodie.

* * *

"You've gotta be shittin' me."

The shirt had been a gag gift from one very drunk Angela Ziegler, but Jesse loved it all the same. Of course, who wouldn't want "save a horse, ride a cowboy" brazenly scrawled across their chest? Jesse sure as hell did, no matter how red Hanzo got every time he put it on. ("Jesse McCree I will disown you if you do not change.")

He'd look for it later, but for now, he needed a beer. Doing the laundry was for losers anyway.

* * *

"D, do you have my sweatpants?"

Hana's brows knit together. "The ones that say 'juicy' on the ass?"

"Ye." Lúcio quipped. "Those."

She shook her head briefly. "Nah. Haven't seen them since I threw them in the washer."

Lúcio paused, almost conspiratorially. "Faree' said she lost a hoodie in here."

"And Jesse lost that stupid shirt!" Hana remembered, snapping her fingers. "Lú, I got an idea."

"Laundry cryptid?"

"Babe, yes," she said with a laugh, and finished loading the rest of the items into Lúcio's basket.

"Oh man, I wonder who it is?"

* * *

"Me shirt's gone," Jamison said with little flourish as he dropped down into a seat. Satya's nose crinkled at the ash that drifted from his body. "Oh, blimey, sorry Satya. Bit of a problem with a mine, didn't realize I was this filthy."

"Disgusting," she muttered. Then, interest piqued: "You... own a shirt?"

"Well, yeah," he replied, feeling sort of attacked by her interest.

"You own a shirt and yet you walk around here unclothed like an uncivilized oaf?"

He bristled only a little. "Oi, you're just mad you can't walk around shirtless what with the knockers and all."

Satya pinched the bridge of her nose. "Regardless. The shirt."

"Someone stole it from the wash."

"What does it look like?"

"Got a big ol' kangaroo on the front," Jamison said cheerily.

Satya let out a sigh as she rose from the cafeteria table. "Of course it does."

* * *

“Alright, we have a problem.” Hana was in full theatrical mode, standing tall and speaking from an improvised soapbox, otherwise known as the coffee table in the common room. “Lú and I think we have a laundry cryptid.”

“A laundry cryptid?” Angela asked, a bit flatly. “Hana, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

“We’ve got a laundry thief, Dr. Z, and Lú and I are on the case!”

“Sort of,” corrected Lúcio. “We are sort of on the case. As in, Hana is on the case, and I’m here to support her interests like a good boyfriend.”

“We are sort of on the case!” declared Hana, correcting herself brazenly. “I’ve called all of you here for an interrogation.”

Ana dropped her head back on the sofa. “Hana, darling, I must say that this… laundry cryptid, as you’ve so eloquently called them, has been around since long before you joined. They haven’t been caught yet, so I doubt you’ll be able to do it.”

“Cap, I wouldn’t-” Lúcio started, but was immediately cut off.

Hana pointed a finger at Ana. “You wait! I’ll make you proud.”

* * *

“I know who the laundry thief is,” Hanzo said, sitting down across from Jesse.

His eyes widened, just marginally. “Hold up. You realize Hana’s gonna flip the fuck out when she finds out, right?”

Hanz crossed his arms. “She’s not going to find out.”

“Why?”

“It’s Genji,” he explained.

Jesse paused, drumming his fingers on his coffee. “Genji stole that shitty shirt-”

“That was a request,” Hanzo said with a grin. “I hate that shirt.”

Jesse made a face, but was quiet for a moment until:

“So, wait,” he began, brow furrowed as he frowned at the too-weak coffee. “How the hell do you know Genji’s the one stealing clothes?”

“He used to do it when we were younger,” Hanzo replied. “Especially as children. I couldn’t keep a sweatshirt for myself without him taking it.”

“What a little asshole.”

* * *

“Genji, _liebling_ , why do you have Jamison’s shirt?”

Genji paused, glancing at the ratty shirt in her hands. “That’s not Jamison’s.”

“It’s Jamison’s,” Angela corrected him, firmly but with a smile. “Genji, did you take this from the laundry?”

“Uh-” he stammered, quickly getting cut off.

“And Fareeha’s hoodie? And Jesse’s shirt? Lúcio’s sweatpants?”

Genji was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. Angela snickered. “I cannot believe you.”

“Does this mean I have to give them back?” Genji asked, somewhat slowly. “I would rather not do that.”

She rolled her eyes and threw the shirt at him, and he took that as a ‘maybe’.

* * *

“I know it’s you.”

Jamison stared at Hana blankly, not quite sure where this was going. “You what, mate?”

“You’re the laundry thief!” she declared, arms folded.

Jamison blinked once. “...mate, have you ever seen me wear anythin’ but my shorts and my kangaroo shirt? I’m startin’ to think you stole it, by the way, what with the whole fixation on stuff bein’ missing thing.”

Hana bristled visibly, but that wasn’t really scary to Jamison. Not much was, other than maybe Mei. Or Ziegler. The lady doctor was scary as fuck. And somehow, Hana was talking, and he missed all but: “-I don’t know why I’d want your shitty shirt anyway, rat boy.”

“Rat man, to you, ta,” he said, almost a bit snidely.

Hana merely stared incredulously as the junker brushed past her, leaving a film of grime clinging to the arm of her hoodie.

* * *

 “It’s you!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”Genji said, shoulder deep in the drier, a couple of old hoodies already on the floor at his feet.

Lúcio stared at him blankly. “Sure.”

“I tripped and fell.”

“Mhm,” the musician replied, unimpressed.

Genji sighed. “Please don’t tell Hana."

“Your secret’s safe if I get my sweatpants back.”

* * *

_And so the laundry cryptid of Gibraltar went somewhat undiscovered for the time being, despite his obvious inability to be sneaky around a group of highly trained idiots._


	11. It Would Be Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe distracts Widowmaker from some bad thoughts.
> 
> 2/3 of my Papa!Gabe prompts.

“Your aim is atrocious,” Améile teased haughtily, lifting herself up off of her rifle. “Is that why you only ever use the shotguns, Gabriel?”

“Go fuck yourself,” he replied cheerily, reloading the old bolt action number in his hands.

Améile snickered. “Perhaps if we get you the purple treatment, you can be as good a shot as  _ moi _ .”

“I kinda like this look more than cyanosis blue, thanks, Améile.”

“What I would give to have your ugly mug,” she sighed. “It would be nice.”

Gabriel, with his grayish skin and scars, blinked in surprise. “I think you need your eyes checked.”

“Or more reconditioning,” the sniper mused darkly, then got a headshot on her target. “Ooh. Or not.”

“Teach me,” Gabe requested, and watched as the foggy haze of self loathing and regret lifted.

Améile smiled. “As you wish,  _ cher _ .”


	12. I Got Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe comforts Sombra.
> 
> 3/3 of the Papa!Gabe prompts.

Sombra was never quiet.

So when Gabe walked into the common room and he wasn’t greeted by the usual obnoxious EDM that Sombra usually played, [instead hearing soothing slower music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLxSMVvxcYM), he was concerned.

Sombra was laid across the couch with an arm flung over her eyes, breathing just too quickly to be asleep but believable enough for most people. Gabe wasn’t most people, so he crouched next to her. “Som. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she replied instantly, trying to sound cheery as usual but failing miserably. “Nothing, Gabe. Leave me alone.”

Gabe let out a sigh through his nose. “Tell me, _cariña_.”

She dropped her arm, and Gabe could see her wet cheeks, and the smudges of purple and black eye makeup that found a home in her hollowed, sleepless eyes. “I got problems. Same as everyone else in this base.”

“Not everyone in this base is listening to slow music and crying,” he reminded her, gently, like a father comforting a child.

Sombra was not a child, and Gabe was not a father, but somehow her heart ached even more, so she admitted, “I can’t stand some of the shit that happened when I was a kid, okay? The Crisis. The darkness. My parents. Los Muertos.”

“You shouldn’t have gone through it,” he said. “No one should’ve. But you have to remember it’s in the past, and it can’t be changed. That’s the only way to let go. Remember that it’s over, and that nothing will change it.”

She snorted. “Easier said than done.”

“I know.” Gabe told her. “I get the nightmares too. Geneva. Ana. Jack. Genji. Jesse.”

Sombra turned on her side to face him, those unnatural lilac eyes cutting deep, searching the coal black that his had become long ago. “ _Gabito_ , life sucks.”

“It does,” he agreed. “It really does.”


End file.
